Be better than their best attempts to worsen you.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 6:51 AM UTC
Who's the boy with the sickly eyes down the hall?
He looks so familiar. But his name I can't recall.
He's on my lips, I can feel him right there,
hope he didn't catch me with my mouth open stare.
He looks like he needs a nap, to get some rest.
His clothes all wrinkled, his posture's a mess.
But he has a thick line of laughter creased in his cheek.
His smile has some tatters, and he's got coffee stains
for teeth.
His glasses are fogged up ***** with that day's grease.
If he took a bit of care for himself he'd be looking,
well,
better than what I've seen.
Too bad he isn't better than he is right now.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
Cough perfume.
Let's leave here soon.
Breathe with lungs wide,
diaphragm aflame,
nose wide open like only love can blame.
Let's set this place back a century.
Bring on the dark ages,
tug the heartstrings,
form noose from sweaty bed sheets.
Listen to rain on aluminum awnings.
Pout after you mourn.
Dream in past tense,
and use passive tone in your speech.
I'm with the trees in June.
Let's catch fire and leave here soon.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
A road made by walking where you shouldn't.
Told not to by the full throat,
taken aback by paths desired away.
A brand apart from the rest, but so, too, the others can follow.
Heels that graze floors in an apathetic stutter strut.
A stepped up out of time gangliness of lanky mellow.
Walk where one may, walk where one wishes.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
I'm starting to not remember how you looked.
But I remember little things,
like how you'd fold half the page to dogear
your place in a book.
The smell of old canvas
which you stretched when you were manic,
and watched it turn whiter
as you grew depressed thinking of how to paint it.
The grinding of your teeth in your sleep, ******* it
it drove me up the wall. Still does, because
as I sit here writing it from memory I shuddered.
The smell of your shampoo whose brand name I forgot.
Because if I could I'd have a case of it.
Just to be nearer to you.
You used to smile when I'd read you something I wrote.
Now I've found a website where I can post.
You always told me I had some type of talent to capture
moments nobody noticed,
a photographer with words instead of apertures.
But aren't they meant to be worth a thousand more than mine?
I think you held for me a little bias.
You told me I'd end up as a paragraph in an essay
of some American Literature student's midterm grade.
She'd ace it, and I loved where you placed me.
In the middle of everything better than I was,
in this future of whimsy where I kept writing
just because.
I can't tell you what you gave me for those years, as short as they were.
All I can do is tell other people that any confidence or talent is all due to her.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
Can't write a poem right now.
Can't figure out the sound,
or how the rest of this should look.
My phrasings are obvious most times,
and don't get me started on my slant rhymes.
So what do I have, as a writer, to offer the betters of my peers?
Quiet conversation,
loud argumentation,
fingertips clacking mechanics and a penchant to steer
myself across the happy, golden union.
I sometimes forget the only thing holding me down is the force
of something much larger than I.
It's the firing pistons alive in the mind behind both of my
grey-blue faltering like the autumn to the winter eyes.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
Comfort is not a guarantee.
5:30am, quiet reads while listening
to William Basinski.
Sometimes I imagine myself as a radio mast. Cold steel
built on a hill surrounded by forest and fog.
All I do is speak through tunes and blink my light.
And during the day I'm remarked as an eye sore.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 5:45 AM UTC
What's the one thing you could talk about without rest?
Who's the one person that made talking effortless?
Where is the one that changed you for the better,
where is the one that made you your best?
When did it all occur, was it recently, or more in the past?
Is this one something or someone you wish you could have back?
People aren't things,
and also, they aren't chances.
They're the same solemnness
between the sonder and the glances.
We all have our thing and some of us may have more.
But I prefer the passions of the focused
for whom hearts with pulse on sleeve are wore.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 3:15 AM UTC
The soul is missed by me dearly.
It contained within it, simultaneously,
spark, spirit, care, and glimmer.
Lit by an inestimable null.
The escape of which I now suffer.
Is a daily sick.
Of waking up with shuddered groan.
I miss the soul when it had chance.
Even if my end were purgatory.
I'll take the grey to the decisive ends.
Focused edge where bright meets blurry.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC